


The Law of Diminishing Returns

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Apocalypse, M/M, Sibling Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 09:33:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The roads are cracked pavement and pockmarked dirt and strewn with old, dented cars that have crashed on their way to freedom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Law of Diminishing Returns

**THE LAW OF DIMINISHING RETURNS**  
SUPERNATURAL  
Castiel/Dean; Sam/Dean  
 **WARNINGS** : post-apocalypse AU; spoilers for season five; evil!Sam

  
The roads are cracked pavement and pockmarked dirt and strewn with old, dented cars that have crashed on their way to freedom. Dean says there’s something lyrical about this, something poetic about the way everything sounds, everything looks and smells, but then he laughs. Castiel doesn’t get the joke, but neither does Dean.

The Impala’s tape deck stopped working in Colorado, but even then they had lost everything in one of the Dakotas, they can’t remember which. They borrow clothes from dead bodies, at least the ones that aren’t too shredded, the ones that look kind of clean, and Dean bathes them in bleach until the colors turn ruddy and they smell like cold chemicals and it kind of stings to put them on bare skin.

Castiel dropped the suit, but kept the trench coat. Dean has kept only his necklace. And his tattoos, bloody and scarred and folded from the lost weight.

It’s the best when they find canned food, in old, abandoned cellars or half-lit grocery stores, when they find food with starch and preservatives because this is what keeps them alive in a place like this, this is what keeps them going, even after they’ve lost the taste for carrots and potatoes and salt. Castiel tells Dean that sometimes he can feel Jimmy’s cravings for burgers and fries and milkshakes, feel them like it’s Castiel himself that feels this hunger, and Dean knows it only because he feels it too, even if diner food just tastes like family in his mouth. Even if it only just reminds him of Dad. And Sam.

Castiel can taste and touch and smell, but it’s all cold and sterile instead of the burning warmth that Dean feels. He doesn’t get directives from Heaven anymore and he can’t talk to other angels and he’s becoming more human by the minute, with his soft understanding of Dean’s quick-witted slogans and pop culture-laden replies, but he still feels cold to Dean, still feels as alien as anybody else.

As the brother Dean used to know.

They’re on the way to Mississippi when Dean says, “I figured it out.”

Figured out a way to stop this whole thing, figured out a way to end the Apocalypse before it destroys everything, before it destroys everybody but the only few demons and angels and hunters left.

They’ve been lining the roads from Kansas to California and back again with empty aluminum and with shotgun shells, and with people who never got a second chance after Sam said yes. They have second-hand weapons and salvaged gas and the whistling wind through cracked windows. They have each other, and not much else.

And Dean laughs when he says, “I just have to kill Sam.”

And Castiel says, “Finally.”

***

The worst part, Dean told Castiel on the last hunt, the last fight for survival against a band of vampires that holed up in Arkansas, holed up in this tiny little town with no more than fifty breathing blood bags for the taking, the worst part, Dean says, is that he wasn’t there.

When Sam finally did say yes.

When Sam gave in.

He says this with blood on his hands. He says this with a red-faced grin, like irony is just hilarious right now. And Castiel touches two fingers to the back of Dean’s neck, white on red, and doesn’t say that’s okay, doesn’t say that it’s better that way, for Dean not to have seen Sam change into what he is now, doesn‘t say anything.

And that’s Dean’s favorite part about Castiel, the inability to lie. The inability to stroke his ego or pad his self-esteem. Castiel with nothing but bald, emotionless feelings. Castiel with nothing but the truth. That’s Dean’s favorite part about Castiel, the part where Castiel doesn’t lose sight of the big picture, the part where Castiel doesn’t love Dean as much as Dean loves him.

And Dean crushes his mouth against Castiel’s, and it all just tastes like blood.

***

The Impala can go days without rest, the creaking sort of groans she gives when she’s been driving and idling nonstop and just needs a good night’s sleep, and maybe Castiel can go forever and ever without ever shutting his eyes, even if Jimmy can’t, even if takes more than the love of God to cure the ache in Jimmy’s body, but Dean can only make it forty-eight hours before he starts slipping. Before he starts doing stupid, reasonless things that make it easy for Sam to find him. Stupid, reasonless things that make it easy for their zigzagging across the country to unravel, their tracks to become uncovered.

Stupid things like calling Sam’s cell phone on impulse. Like leaving thirteen rambling messages about the things they used to do as children, the games they used to play, the presents they used to give. Like crying exhaustedly and maybe just a little bit drunk into the receiver, like telling Sam, telling the thing that used to be Sam, the thing wearing Sam’s skin, that he misses his touch, that he misses his crooked smile, that he misses the way Sam would leave a heavy hand on the space between Dean’s shoulder blades and it would all be okay, and it would all be alright.

And then Castiel will find him and they’ll be leaving again, the phone cracked and dying and left behind. And he’ll be given another one, made to look the same, something Castiel cooks up with his magical touch, that still works, even though all the cell towers have been torn down, even though there’s no one left to work at the phone companies. And Castiel won’t say anything, won’t judge, won’t even tell him to stop doing it, because they both know it’s useless.

Because they both know that Dean will do what he wants, that Dean is as stubborn as his father and his grandfather before him, that Dean has his own free will, if only just for a little while.

Because they both know that it won’t matter, anyway, if fate is something solid and tangible and unchanging. If fate is something that the Winchesters will never be able to escape from, no matter how hard they try.

***

High in the Appalachians, the air is filled with fog-gray clouds that are dense with water, and it’s hard to see, and it’s not exactly the best idea that Dean’s ever had, but Castiel keeps telling him to go up, that up is the way to go if they want to get out of this alive. This the Apocalypse or this the next few hours, Dean’s not exactly sure.

There’s a stillness around them, and in fog like this, Dean’s senses are super-heightened, and he can hear the rustling of the leaves over the engine, can hear the far-away cry of a bird, the far-away cry of an answer. The gas gage is hovering just above empty, and Dean knows that they won’t last long, knows that they won’t get very far along the trail, but Castiel keeps telling him to hold on, keeps telling him that it’s around here somewhere.

What is? Dean asks. Around where?

But Castiel says, Shh, like he’s a child, and Dean falls silent with a sour mouth.

They can barely see an inch in front of them and Dean is creeping around the corner of one sharp rock, careful of the edge, careful of the winding road in front of them, and Castiel keeps saying, Somewhere. It’s somewhere.

You’d think angels would have a better sense of direction, Dean says, but it’s mostly to himself, and it’s mostly just so there’s something to break the silence, some kind of sound to echo in his ears.

“Stop,” Castiel says.

And Dean says, “Here?” His foot still on the accelerator.

And Castiel says, “Yes. Stop. Now.”

And Dean slams on the breaks.

The door to the Impala never creaks when Castiel leaves the car, probably because he never uses it, it’s just blink and he’s gone, and it never fails to creep Dean out, even after he’s gotten used to most of Castiel’s angel habits. Even after he had gotten used to being alone most of the time.

Dean turns off the engine and climbs out of the car, looking around, but he can’t see anything. He calls Castiel’s name, but there’s no answer. He spins around once, twice, but still there’s nothing. “Great,” he says, kicking the door frame. “Just fucking great.”

And then there’s hands around him, and something pressed sharp and cold to his throat, and a voice gravel-deep in his ear. “Move and you’re dead,” the voice says, and Dean wants to laugh, because this is not how he thought this day would go.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is soft and unafraid, soft and ready for anything. “I’m not the hot chick who dies in the first fifteen minutes, you know.” And he can feel the knife relaxing against his Adam’s apple, can feel the arms around him uncoil with confusion.

“Then who are you?” The voice says again, and Dean can tell that it’s a boy, that he can’t be too long out of his teens, can‘t be too much younger than Sam. Than Sam was.

And Dean laughs. “I’m the hero, if you can believe it.”

“I can’t,” the boy says, but he drops the knife anyway. “Dean Winchester, right?”

And Dean turns around, slowly, and says, “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

The boy is Dean’s height, but a slighter build, and he’s wearing a hoodie that‘s a size too small, black and white stripes covering his hands, black and white stripes covering his face. He shakes his head and spits by Dean’s foot, ignoring the question, ignoring Dean‘s inquisitive look, and makes a motion for Dean to follow him. “We’ve kind of been waiting for you since this thing started.” The Apocalypse, he doesn’t say, but Dean knows what he means.

He lets out a long breath, graveling crunching under his feet. “Some people have it in their heads that you’re some kind of savior or something. That you’ll end the war.”

And those people are stupid, he doesn’t say, but Dean gets the drift.

“If it makes you feel better,” Dean says, walking into the fog. “I don’t really think I’m Jesus material.”

“That’s a relief,” the kid says, and stops in front of a door. He knocks three times and it slides open with a wave of warmth and light.

And Dean steps inside.

***

The house is small, but nice, much nicer than anywhere Dean’s slept in the past few months, much nicer than all the abandoned, cockroach-infested hotels and motels, much nicer than Bobby’s bomb shelter. There’s a fire going and something cooking on the stove, Dean can smell the spices from here, and the boy slips the hood of his jacket from over his head and his face is rosy-cheeked and young. Younger than Sam, but not by much. And he purses his mouth and says, “You look like you could eat.”

And Dean feels the growling of his stomach as soon as he hears the words, something he’s used to by now, but has never quite gotten over. Something he’s never started to like. “I guess,” he says, and it’s soft and quiet, swallowed whole by the house.

“Your friend is already here,” the boy says, and points to the kitchen, where Dean can just make out the sound of Castiel’s voice, timid, deep, where Dean can just make out the sound of someone’s laughter. “I’m Tommy, by the way,” the boy says, and Dean notices a tiny scar by Tommy’s mouth, a tiny scar he might have had before all of this, before Sam said yes.

“Thanks,” Dean says, and he’s not sure what for, and he’s not sure why he even says it, but he just feels like it needs to be said.

Tommy shrugs and heads toward the kitchen.

***

Tommy lives here, in the mountains, with his two younger brothers. They’ve lived here since their parents died in the first wave, since a little after the war started. They fish and hunt and stay by themselves in this quiet little vacation cottage with no water and no heat and no electricity. They live off the grid, and it’s not ideal, and it’s not what they wanted, but it’s okay with them. It’s better than dying small and anonymous in the city.

Tommy keeps giving Dean a look like he’s sizing him up to take something, to uproot their lives here, to end everything just as it was getting comfortable. Castiel doesn’t tell Dean why they’re here, why they stopped, why the Impala is in the middle of an abandoned road on the top of a deserted mountain, where the only warm bodies around for miles are three kids who, frankly, are still alive by the miracle of a still-standing vacation house.

Dean’s a little tired and a little numb, and he’s got the yellow lines of the road seared into the backs of his eyelids, so when Tommy tells him to take one of the beds, Dean lies down and closes his eyes and just doesn’t get up for two days.

He finally wakes up when Castiel leans down to press his mouth to Dean’s, a chaste kiss that moves into something deeper, something Dean pushes into, licking lips and teeth and tongue.

“Thanks,” Dean says when they break apart.

“You were out for awhile,” Castiel replies, and he’s still sitting next to Dean on the bed, his hair ruffled from Dean’s hands.

Dean shrugs, but he doesn’t admit to needing it, doesn’t admit to needing anything. He rubs a palm over his eyes, bleary, and then looks around. The room he’s in is big, is filled with books and paintings and paperweights, and antique looking furniture made from wrought iron and mahogany. The windows are boarded up, but the sun peeks through the cracks, anyway, striping the floor with shadows. He wants to say, Where am I? but then he remembers, remembers the mountains, remembers Tommy and the two younger boys, silent but unafraid.

“They’ve gone out to get breakfast,” Castiel says, and his lips, Jimmy’s lips, are red and wet when he talks. “I have to leave soon.”

“Where are you going?” Dean knows he won’t get a straightforward answer, but it never hurts to try. And at least now Castiel tells him when he leaves, at least now he’s privileged to that.

“I have to take care of something,” he says, and leans down once more, mouth on Dean’s, leans down and Dean is pushing upwards, his breath caught somewhere in his lungs, his hand sliding up to the back of Castiel’s neck, the soft hair right there, Jimmy’s hair, and Dean’s pushing and pushing and Castiel’s pushing right back, and then there’s nothing.

When Dean opens his eyes, Castiel’s gone.

“Yeah,” he says, mostly to himself. “Thanks for that.”

***

What Dean remembers from the start of things is this: there was a lot of running and a lot of hiding and a lot of Castiel with his hand on the back of Dean’s neck as he vomited on the side of the road in Kansas, in Colorado, in Nevada and Missouri and Arkansas, in every state from here and where Sam said yes. Dean drank for days and slept for days and Castiel was there and never once said anything, never once said anything about their failure to understand the fate that has always been in store for them. For Dean and Sam, for their parents and grandparents, for every one they’ve touched.

It was Castiel and it was Dean and then it was more than that, and neither one of them complained when Dean woke up with Castiel’s mouth on his, with their hands and their bare feet brushing against each other, and it’s still Jimmy’s body, but it’s Castiel beneath the skin, it’s Castiel who touches him, who kisses him, who presses his nose to the underside of Dean’s jaw and breathes like the world is on fire. It’s Castiel who says I love you, and it’s Dean who says it back, lips and teeth and tongue, and the way they curl around each other like a comma.

Castiel never once mentions Sam when they’re like this, but even Dean’s not stupid enough to forget who Castiel’s replacing.

***

There’s something about Tommy that Dean just can’t put his finger on. Something familiar. He knows it intuitively, he knows it instinctively, he knows it like he knew the day Sam was gone. It’s something raw beneath Tommy’s skin, inside him, and Dean knows it like he knows himself, like he used to know Sam.

Castiel says, “You can’t escape destiny.” His lips on Dean’s lips. His tongue on Dean’s tongue.

Castiel says, “Even the Winchesters have to let go sometime.” His hands on Dean’s hands, the soft, shallow intake of breath against the column of Dean’s throat, his nose at the corner of Dean’s mouth.

Castiel says, “Even you can’t run from fate, Dean.”

And he smiles, and Dean swallow a moan.

***

Castiel leaves for days, but only comes back for hours. He’s planning, he tells Dean, planning something big, something that could stop the war. Planning on what, he doesn’t say, Dean doesn’t ask, but Dean trusts him, implicitly, trusts that Castiel will do what he has to do, and if it goes against Dean’s sensibilities, goes against Dean‘s judge of what‘s right, what‘s wrong, well, Castiel will just leave those parts out.

Castiel’s good at playing Dean, good at knowing what Dean will consider immoral, what Dean won’t exactly want to hear. Castiel’s good, maybe even better than Sam was, and Dean knows it. Dean loves that about him.

“So, this angel,” Tommy says, in the kitchen, his back to Dean as he stirs in leftover spices into a pot on the stove, stirs in canned tomato sauce, the kind that doesn’t expire for years. “Is he, like, your boyfriend or something?”

And Dean wants to laugh, but he kind of is, so he just shrugs. Labels are labels, even after the Apocalypse. “I guess,” Dean says.

“And you two are, what? Driving around the country solving crimes?” Dean can’t see Tommy’s face, but he can bet the expression.

“If you can call killing vampires and werewolves and ghosts solving crimes, then yeah.” He does laugh this time, his fingers picking at a tear in the tablecloth.

Tommy brings the wooden spoon up to his mouth to taste a bit of the sauce, and then adds more flavoring, stirring and stirring and stirring. It‘s smelling good, now, smelling like something Dean’s mom might of cooked, back before all this, back before she was murdered in Sam‘s nursery. Dean can hear Tommy’s two brothers playing in the living room, laughing their high-pitched laughter. Dean can hear birds outside, the ones that live up here in the mountains, where it’s quiet and nice.

“And meanwhile, your brother is out there killing people because he let the devil use him like a meat suit?” Tommy’s voice is getting harder now, getting colder.

And that’s not exactly fair, not to Dean, who was left behind in all of this, who wasn’t even there, but he says yes, anyway, says, “Yeah.”

Says, “Yes.” And this is where his throat tightens, and this is where he feels that lump in his chest, that pull on his heart.

“And to end this war, all you have to do is stop playing hooky with your boyfriend and say yes to Michael.” And that’s not even a question, that’s a fact, Tommy gritting his teeth and stirring the sauce harder and harder, thin drops splashing the stove like rain.

“I told you I wasn’t Jesus material,” but Dean feels flat, feels sorry for Tommy and his brothers and their parents who have died. Feels sorry for every one he’s fucked over. For every one he could have saved but didn’t, because of Sam, because of Castiel, because of his stupid, selfish desire to make it out of this war alive.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, leaning over to blow out the flame on the stove. “I guess you were right about that.”

***

Even when Dean’s dad was still alive, even when Sam was a baby, Dean was always the one who played the martyr. Because it was the easiest solution to a fucked up situation, because it was the role he was born to play.

“So why not play it now?” Castiel says, his mouth on Dean’s mouth, and it’s never been a question of free will. It’s always been a question of how long.

How long until Dean falls, how long until he finally gives up being his father’s son, a goddamn stubborn son of bitch who has always thought of others before him except for where it counts, except for where it matters the most. How long until Dean finally says yes to the question nobody wants to ask, not until now, anyway, not until it got desperate enough, not until everything worked out just so.

Castiel says, “I’ve been working on this for months now.” His hands on Dean’s hands.

Castiel says, “It all came down to this.” His nose against the corner of Dean’s mouth, his breath cooling the column of Dean’s throat.

“Came down to what?” Dean asks.

And Castiel says, “Who said yes first.”

***

Tommy says, “It’s been awhile, Dean.”

And Dean just knows, fucking knows who it is before he even opens his eyes. It’s something in the way he says Dean’s name, something in the way his mouth moves, the way he glides across the floor in a body that’s not his own. And he breathes out, “Michael,” and then he’s there, next to Dean’s bed, and Dean wants to ask where Castiel is, but he’s afraid of the answer.

“I can tell you right now that the answer is still no.”

Tommy laughs, but it’s not his laugh. “That’s okay, I feel like this boy is sufficient enough for now. Until he starts to decay, that is.”

And Dean winces like he’s just been hit in the gut. He wants to say, “Don’t hurt him,” but that’s a loaded statement with an answer Dean’s not gonna like. That Dean’s already heard a million times before. There were five other Tommy’s before him, five other meat suits, and those are only the ones that Dean knows of, only the ones that Dean found drowning in pools of their own blood. Only the ones that Dean burned in warrior pyres, a hunter’s funeral, a soldier’s funeral.

“Aren’t you tired of running yet?” Michael is nothing if not his brother, persuading and bribing and threatening and begging. Nothing if not every one of his brothers, ruthless and uncaring. Dean’s learned this the hard way, learned this even before he started saying no, even before Sam gave in.

“Aren’t you tired of asking?” And Dean stands up, out of the bed, pulling his jeans on in one swift motion.

“Never,” Michael says. “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m used to waiting around.”

“Then you’ll be fine to wait some more.” Dean’s back to Tommy’s body, maybe Michael doesn’t see the look of hesitation on Dean’s face, maybe Michael thinks everything is the same.

“Sure,” Michael says through Tommy’s mouth, and Dean turns around again.

“Sure.” And Tommy smiles, but it’s not his smile. “But you’ll have to explain to his brothers exactly why Tommy’s never coming home again.”

And Dean grits his teeth, but even he should be used to this by now. Even he should know how this is going to end, how this will end up.

“I hope you make it quick,” Dean says. “And painless.”

“Not until I’m done with him,” Michael says, and then he’s gone.

***

Dean wants to rage at Castiel, but truth be told, it’s not the first time he’s done this. There have been five Tommy’s before this, five other meat suits that were living and breathing and fighting everyday, five other boys who had families and girlfriends and somebody that would miss them if they never came home.

Dean wants to blame Castiel for this, but truth be told, it’s not Castiel’s fault.

It’s nobody’s fault but his own.

***

Sam says, “We’re in this together, you know.”

And he’s not smiling, but he’s proud. Like their father would be proud. And Sam’s nose on the corner of Dean’s mouth, Sam with his breath on the column of Dean’s throat, Sam’s hands on Dean’s hands, Sam says, “We’re gonna stick this out, you and me. We’re not gonna leave each other.”

Sam’s mouth on Dean’s mouth, Sam says, “We’re in this until the end.”

“Team Free Will,” Dean says, and his laughter is swallowed by Sam’s lips.

***

Castiel says, “Are you sure?” His gravel-deep voice in Dean’s ear, he’s been gone for days, but this is exactly the moment he’s been waiting for.

And Dean says, “I can’t let anybody else die. I can’t choose not to save people.” Every one who’s died by the hands of the Winchesters, every one who’s died because Dean hasn’t found the guts to kill himself, hasn’t found the guts to finally end this whole thing.

And Dean says, his hand in Castiel’s hand, “I need to know I did everything I could to stop this war. I need to know I didn’t just say it because I’m playing the martyr, because everyone else is gone.” Because he’s failed his father, because he’s failed Sam. Because he could never save his mother. Because every one he’s ever loved has failed to make it out of this alive.

And Dean says, “I need to know this is the right thing.” The only thing.

And Dean says, “I need to know that this is really my destiny.”

And Michael says, “It is.” His smile through Tommy’s mouth, Tommy‘s teeth and Tommy‘s tongue. Tommy and his decaying body, Tommy and his pale skin, his bloodshot eyes. Michael is smiling and smiling and Dean just wants it to stop. Dean just wants it to be over, once and for all.

And Castiel says, “Are you sure, Dean?” His hand on Dean’s, Jimmy’s hand on Dean’s, squeezing and squeezing and maybe even Castiel’s afraid of it now, afraid of all of this, even though it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted since the world ended. Even though it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted since Sam let the devil into his body, since Sam died and Dean wasn’t there, wasn’t even there to save him.

And Castiel says, “Are you sure?” His reassuring smile the last thing that Dean ever wants to see.

Castiel says, “Are you ready?” His voice the last voice that Dean ever wants to hear.

And Dean closes his eyes and says yes.


End file.
